The forest pressed around the camp like a living thing, its gnarled trees stretching their shadowy limbs toward the flickering light of the campfire. The air carried the damp chill of an autumn night, thick with the mingled scents of earth and smoke. The faint chirp of crickets punctuated the quiet, joined by the occasional rustle of leaves stirred by an unseen wind. Yet beneath the natural rhythm of the woods, there was an uneasy stillness—a tension that clung to the soldiers like a second skin.

The squad moved with practiced efficiency, their murmured voices barely rising above the crackle of the fire. Here, a man secured his bedroll against the uneven ground; another inspected his blade for chips left by the day’s battle. The sharp scent of whetstone mingled with the faint iron tang of blood lingering in the air, reminding them of the skirmish they’d barely survived.

Ungoránë sat apart from the others, his posture deliberate, his back against a tree at the edge of the firelight’s reach. The faint orange glow illuminated the blade in his hands as he drew the whetstone across its edge in a steady, rhythmic motion. Scrape. Scrape. The sound was sharp yet soothing, the only sign of movement in his otherwise still figure. His unkempt hair fell over his eyes, casting shadows on his face as he worked, his expression blank but for the faint tension in his jaw.

The quiet was deceptive, masking the restless energy beneath the camp’s surface. It wasn’t just the aftermath of the ambush that weighed on them—their losses, though light, had been a sobering reminder of the enemy’s growing strength. Unspoken things gnawed at the edges of their thoughts: the glances cast toward the dark woods, the knowledge that they were far from reinforcements, and the lingering bitterness between some of the men.

A twig snapped somewhere beyond the fire’s glow, and heads turned sharply, hands instinctively drifting to weapons. But it was only Haldir stepping into the circle of light with the quiet authority of someone who commanded respect without asking for it. His gaze swept the camp, taking in the men, the fire, and finally, Ungoránë. Without a word, he approached the younger soldier, his boots crunching softly against the forest floor.

“I have something for you,” Haldir said, his tone calm but carrying the weight of command, the kind of voice that required attention without asking for it.

Ungoránë set the whetstone aside, the motion deliberate as if laying down a burden. He rose smoothly to his feet, his movements marked by caution rather than eagerness. His expression remained unreadable, a mask he had perfected, but his sharp, restless eyes flicked up to meet Haldir’s. Those eyes, pale and keen, seemed to search the captain’s face for answers before the question could even form.

Haldir held out the axe, the blade catching the light from the campfire in a brief, fiery gleam. Its broad, double-headed edge was brutal in its simplicity, designed for crushing shields and splitting helmets. The handle, a polished dark wood wrapped in worn leather, bore nicks and scratches—marks of battles long past. It was a weapon with a history, a tool that demanded strength and presence.

Ungoránë’s gaze lingered on it, his lips tightening in a subtle line. He didn’t immediately reach for it. Instead, his head tilted slightly, a flicker of unease crossing his features. “An axe?” he said at last, his tone flat but edged with quiet disbelief.

Haldir stepped closer, waiting to answer. He extended the weapon farther, forcing it into Ungoránë’s reach. “It’s good practice to learn different weapons,” he said, his voice calm but carrying an unmistakable authority. “You never know when your sword will fail you. Or when something heavier will serve you better.”

The words hung between them as Ungoránë hesitated, finally taking the axe. Its weight settled awkwardly in his hands, heavier than he’d expected. He turned it over slowly, testing the balance, his fingers brushing the worn leather wrapping. The heft of it felt wrong, alien—as though the weapon rejected him as much as he did it. This wasn’t a tool for precision or stealth; it was built for brute force, for cleaving through armor and bone.

He adjusted his grip, feeling the strain on his wrist. “It’s unwieldy,” he muttered, more to himself than to Haldir.

“It’s different,” Haldir replied, his tone neutral. “That’s the point.”

Ungoránë’s frown deepened, his fingers tightening on the handle. He glanced up, meeting Haldir’s gaze with a flicker of defiance. “Why an axe?” His voice was low steady, but something was in it—an undercurrent of challenge, perhaps, or a faint hint of accusation.

Haldir studied him for a long moment, the firelight reflecting in his eyes. His expression was unreadable, but his voice almost imperceptibly softened as he answered. “You’re light on your feet, Ungoránë. That’s not a bad thing. But you’re too used to disappearing when it suits you. An axe forces you to stay. It demands presence.”

The words landed with more weight than the axe itself. Ungoránë’s jaw tightened, and his gaze returned to the weapon. Was that how Haldir saw him? A man who vanished into the shadows, slipping away from his comrades when they needed him most? He wanted to protest and deny the unspoken accusation, but the truth gnawed at him. Hadn’t the whispers after the ambush said the same thing?

Haldir stepped closer, his voice dropping lower, quieter. “You’ve got potential, Ungoránë. But you’re reckless. You don’t fight like you belong to this squad. And that needs to change.”

The accusation stung, sharper than the edge he’d been sharpening moments before. Ungoránë’s chest tightened, his grip on the axe firming as if bracing against the weight of Haldir’s words. Reckless. Alone. Not part of the squad. The truth of it lingered, undeniable, as vivid as the memories of the ambush. He had acted—not out of fear, but out of instinct—and still, they saw it as running.

He stared at the axe again, its polished wood catching faint streaks of firelight. Heavy. Foreign. Yet something about it resonated—a challenge, perhaps, or a test. It didn’t feel like an offering but a demand.

Finally, Ungoránë raised his eyes to meet Haldir’s, his expression unreadable, his voice low but steady. “I belong to Gondor.”

The words carried a quiet resolve as if voiced more for himself than the captain. He didn’t elaborate, didn’t try to explain. Instead, he shifted his grip on the axe, squaring his shoulders as if preparing to shoulder a burden he hadn’t asked for.

Haldir studied him for a moment longer, his expression softening enough to hint at understanding. He dipped his chin in a slight nod before turning away, his boots crunching softly on the forest floor as he returned to the fire. The faint glow of the flames swallowed his silhouette, leaving Ungoránë alone with the axe—and the weight of its purpose.

As Haldir’s shadow disappeared into the glow of the flames, Ungoránë looked down at the axe again. He let out a slow breath, shifting the weapon in his hands. Heavy, cumbersome. The kind of weapon you couldn’t wield without being seen or heard. Haldir had handed him a challenge he didn’t want to face. But the words stayed with him, echoing like a quiet drumbeat in his chest.

You don’t fight like you belong to this squad. That needs to change.

The campfire crackled softly, embers spiraling upward into the dark canopy above. The soldiers had gathered in a loose circle, their faces lit by the flickering orange glow. The fire softened their sharp edges, casting them in shades of warmth and humanity often absent in the harsh light of battle. Despite the calm, an invisible tension hung in the air, thin as smoke but impossible to ignore.

Ungoránë sat apart from the group, his shadowed figure blending into the trees at the camp’s edge. The axe rested beside him, its polished handle catching stray glimmers of firelight. He could hear the others clearly, their voices carrying in the still night as they shifted from murmurs to more open grumbling. The camaraderie they shared—laughing over inadequate rations, joking about Gamil’s inept attempts at cooking—felt like a world apart, one Ungoránë could see but not touch.

The conversation quickly turned darker. The unease from the day’s ambush lingered, and frustration demanded an outlet.

“Broke the line, that’s what he did,” Gamil muttered, his voice heavy with disdain. He poked at the fire with a stick, his movements sharp and irritated. “He left us holding the line while he chased glory.”

The words struck like a stone, and though Ungoránë’s shoulders tensed, he didn’t move. His fingers tightened on his knee, and his jaw clenched, but his gaze remained fixed on the ground before him.

Elar nodded hesitantly, his voice quieter but no less accusatory. “He’s always doing that. It’s like he doesn’t trust us to hold our own.”

Another soldier chimed in, his voice rough and bitter. “Glory? That wasn’t glory—it was a fool’s gamble. He ran off, left us to bleed while he played the lone hero.”

There were murmurs of agreement, low and resentful. The grumbling gained momentum, like embers catching on dry kindling. Gamil leaned forward, his voice rising. “What kind of soldier abandons his squad in the middle of a fight? It doesn’t matter what he did after that—he ran when it counted.”

The word hung in the air, sharp and damning. Ran. It wasn’t correct, yet stung, carving through Ungoránë’s carefully cultivated indifference. His hand drifted to the axe’s handle, the polished wood cool beneath his fingers, grounding him against the rising tide of accusations.

“I’ll tell you what kind,” Gamil continued, his tone laced with contempt. “A craven. A man who fights for himself and no one else.”

Ungoránë’s breath hitched, and his chest tightened. Craven. The word struck deeper than the others, cutting past the armor of his silence. Still, he didn’t look toward the fire. He forced himself to stay still, though his grip on the axe’s handle tightened until his knuckles ached.

The murmurs grew louder, a rising tide of frustration and bitterness, until Thordur’s voice cut through like a blade.

“He didn’t run,” Thordur said sharply, his tone firm and unyielding. The grumbling ceased almost immediately, the crackle of the fire filling the sudden quiet. “He was there till the end. Fighting.”

Thordur’s gaze swept over the group, his eyes hard. “Or did you miss the part where he cut down those orcs before they reached our flank? You wouldn’t be sitting by this fire now if he hadn’t been there.”

Gamil snorted, his dismissal sharp and bitter. “Doesn’t matter what you call it. He acts like he’s not part of this squad. It’s like he’s better than the rest of us. Haldir can keep him if he wants, but don’t expect me to trust him with my back.”

“You think trust is earned by whimpering like a child?” Thordur shot back, his voice colder now. “We don’t have to like each other, but we answer to Haldir. If he trusts Ungoránë, that should be enough for you.”

The silence that followed was heavy, the air thick with unspoken tension. Gamil muttered something under his breath, but he didn’t press further. Elar glanced away, his discomfort clear, while Darin shifted uneasily, his eyes lingering on Ungoránë’s shadowed form at the firelight’s edge. The tension remained, taut as a bowstring, before the group shifted uneasily, the conversation turning to safer topics—complaints about the stale bread in their rations, jokes about who snored loudest, and idle speculation about when they’d next see a warm bed.

Away from the group, Ungoránë sat unmoving, his shoulders hunched. He had heard every word, but his gaze stayed fixed on the ground. The axe rested beside him, its polished handle a weight he couldn’t yet carry. The laughter around the fire felt like a distant echo, unattainable, like a memory of something he’d never honestly known. The voices blurred together, a murmur of camaraderie that only deepened his sense of isolation.

His gaze drifted to the axe beside him. Its weight felt strange in his hands earlier, an unwelcome companion that didn’t fit. He thought of Haldir’s words, the way they lingered in his mind: An axe forces you to stay. It demands presence.

Presence. The word echoed in his thoughts, heavy and unrelenting. Did they think he wasn’t present? That he hadn’t been there when it mattered? The memory of the ambush burned bright in his mind—the chaos, the clash of steel, the choices he’d made. He hadn’t run. He had acted. But to them, it was all the same.

The ache in his chest deepened. He tightened his grip on the axe’s handle, his fingers tracing the worn leather. I belong to Gondor, he thought. But even as the words surfaced, they felt hollow. Belonging wasn’t just a matter of place or duty—it was trust. And trust, he realized bitterly, was far more challenging to earn than a victory.

Thordur glanced toward the shadows, his eyes landing on Ungoránë’s hunched form. He considered walking over for a moment, breaking the quiet with a word or a joke. But something in Ungoránë’s posture—his head bowed, his shoulders heavy—stopped him. Instead, Thordur sighed, turning back to the fire, his hand brushing idly at the fletching of an arrow. The laughter of the others grew louder, blending into the crackle of the flames, but his thoughts lingered on the man sitting alone in the dark.

Gamil was reenacting his doomed attempt to cook, the younger soldiers laughing hard enough to drown out the crackle of the flames. Thordur forced himself to smile, to join in their cheer, even as the image of Ungoránë lingered at the edge of his mind—a figure etched in shadow, alone not because he had to be but because he thought it was where he belonged.